


rosy-fingered dawn

by casualbird



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, I AM FREYA VON AEGIR!, Morning Cuddles, Post-Canon, Renewal of Vows, Trans Female Character, Weddings, kissy kissy, wife guy hubert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:08:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26761135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casualbird/pseuds/casualbird
Summary: It’s barely a conscious movement, leaning down to kiss the apex of her shoulder, just under the delicate lace trim of her nightdress, to let his lips linger there, to breathe her in.Hiswife.The morning after their renewal-of-vows, Hubert steals a quiet moment with his wife.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 12
Kudos: 62





	rosy-fingered dawn

The morning after, Hubert grumbles awake to a blazing sunrise, to blazing hair in his nose and his eyes and his mouth. And he can’t help but smile, even though the strands of it trail against his teeth, because this is his favorite way to wake up.

For one, _naturally--_ he hasn’t had a wake-up call, has specifically given his manservant the day off after the verve, the fol-de-rol of yesterday. And even though he’s gotten himself into a rhythm, even though he is up with the day’s dawning regardless, when his druthers would have him slinking into bed at this hour--it feels good.

What feels better, though, is his darling nestled against him, warm, the rhythm of her breathing soft and slow, with just the faintest hint of a snore. All those years ago, when first they shared a bed, he’d struggled to fall asleep with it, but now... it lulls him like nothing else.

Nothing else save for the solidity of her body, the smoothness of her freckled skin, the bright aroma of spiced soap. And--though it is a new addition, the feel of her favorite nightgown, made from some silky diaphanous material, bridal white.

As Hubert clears her hair out of his face, he sees that it’s still clinging to the last vestiges of its style, with frizzing braids that once crossed neatly over the nape of her neck, messy waves that, yesterday, cascaded so elegantly, so freely over her bare shoulders... Hubert sighs, spellbound still.

It’s barely a conscious movement, leaning down to kiss the apex of her shoulder, just under the delicate lace trim of her nightdress, to let his lips linger there, to breathe her in.

His _wife._

And he’d thought that was just--a passing, wondrous thought, like the ones that came to him all hours of yesterday, all the years they’ve been together, though in slightly different form. But she’d shifted, and murmured, huffing a soft sleepy breath, and he must have spoken it, must have sighed it soft, lips brushing against warm skin.

“Hubie?” Her voice, when first she wakes--a little hoarse, a little muddled, not quite ready for her usual bright timbre. Hubert--whatever powers that are shall have to help him, because every time he hears it, he just wants to kiss her, to keep her occupied ‘til she’s ready.

He settles on wishing her good morning, kissing once more the knob of her shoulder, the soft swell of her relaxed bicep, down to the place where her arm disappears under the coverlet.

“Freya.”

And she laughs, leaning back into him, turning to show him her bright bleary eyes, the sleepy overtures of a smile. A little smear of makeup still rests at the corner of her mouth, dark cherry, and if Hubert had wanted to kiss her _before..._

“I am... Freya Vestra von Aegir,” she proclaims, laying lazy fingertips against her breast, summoning up all the theater she can before breakfast.

If Hubert had a gold piece for every time he’d heard her say that, or something like it, since first they met, he’d spend it all on her.

And, well, as the Marquis Vestra he likely did, and could, and in their five years of marriage probably _had._

If not after their wedding, with all of its grandeur, its brocade suits, enormous gemstones, flowers imported from every corner of the map, well.

Certainly after yesterday, after the renewal-of-vows that marked their anniversary. After he’d draped the Imperial throne room in their colors once again, hung garlands of crimson roses from every conceivable point, after he’d commissioned for her the wedding gown she’d only recently admitted having dreamed of all her life.

Hubert had had his hands off the dress’ production, his darling shooing him away from every fitting, every little concept sketch insisting that it was dreadful luck for him to see it before the ceremony.

And she wouldn’t hear ‘but Freya darling, we’ve been married five years,’ just turned up her elegant nose, and so he humored her.

Humored her, and had only seen it for a scant several hours the previous day--but swore that if he was any sort of tailor, he could have reproduced the thing from memory. He’d always had an eye for a fine ballgown, ever since he started dressing Edelgard, but this...

It was _magnificent,_ and his Freya was the only woman in the world who could have ever carried it off. Its wide skirts, nipped-in waist, a tatted-lace train that pooled at her feet, trailed behind her nearly out of the room--in all his years as a nobleman, he’d never seen something so opulent.

And the cathedral veil that trailed from her tiara, borrowed from Edelgard’s own jewel box--it was the perfect frame for her bright beaming face, the rosy apples of her cheeks, the blissful tears gathering at the painted edges of her eyes. He’d held her hands in his at the top of the room, squeezed comfort into them, but she couldn’t keep from weeping, smearing her makeup and her joy all over her face as she repeated her wedding vows, in front of Edelgard, the throne they served, in front of everyone.

And though custom dictated he stood still, decorous as Edelgard read out the rites, as he gave once more his own speech, he reached up and brushed his gloved thumb over her cheekbone, wiping tears away.

She gave him a _look_ for the breach of etiquette, at their own ceremony of all things, but her smile never broke.

And he was--daydreaming, in a way that for most of his life he’d never thought himself capable of, that in the last half-decade or so had become such a dear pastime, and Freya was _speaking_ to him, and he was staring into space by way of her collarbone, elsewhere.

“What on earth has got you so distracted, Hubie?”

He marshaled himself, blushing, blinking rapid, scrabbling for eye contact. “Only you. I was thinking, your younger self would be quite pleased to hear that you’ve surpassed Her Majesty once again.”

She smiled appraisingly, lip quirking up, that little smear of rouge disappearing into a dimple. “What new heights have I achieved this time?”

“You are, without doubt, the most beautiful woman there is.”

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you liked it!!!!!!!!
> 
> i think the title is from like, sappho or homer or something, i'm too tired to look it up. it's greek, it's about the goddess of the dawn or whatever, which is what freya is.
> 
> do tell me if you liked this, and discuss: what is the best name for the trans duchess von aegir?
> 
> and, as ever: come chill with me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/bird_scribbles) if you a) like and b) are over 18.
> 
> thank you for reading!


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